


Atchoo!

by out_there



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-01
Updated: 2005-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"You had a cold!" John accused, stabbing Rodney's chest with his finger.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Atchoo!

**Author's Note:**

> A silly, cold-inspired fic set vaguely in S1. Thanks to [](http://scribewraith.livejournal.com/profile)[**scribewraith**](http://scribewraith.livejournal.com/) for betaing.

John counted his steps to the lab through sneezes. One, two, three, atchoo! Four, five, six, atchoo! It was regular enough that he could almost march to it. He sniffled, used the tissue in his hand to wipe his nose, and ignored the pounding in his head as he trudged onwards.

He was going to kill Rodney. Of course, that task would be a little easier if he could stop sneezing.

He walked into the labs, nodded briefly to Zelenka -- who raised an eyebrow and went to hide in one of the other labs -- and then fixed a glare on the scientist he was about to kill. "Rodney?"

"Major." Rodney looked up from his laptop, and then went back to typing. He did a double-take when John sneezed. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

John clenched his jaw. "That's what Elizabeth said. Apparently, I have a cold."

"She's probably right. You should leave," Rodney waved a hand towards the door, "before you infect my scientists."

"I should--Atchoo!" John blew his nose and fished in his pocket for the next tissue.

Typing again, Rodney replied, "You're sick. Which is why I told you to leave."

"This is your fault." The worst thing about being sick -- apart from the headache, and the constant running nose, and the sore throat, and the tiredness -- was that 'aggressive and intimidating' somehow came out sounding 'cranky and whining'. "I'm going to kill you."

"Go to bed."

"I think you've missed the part -- Atchoo! -- where this is your fault."

"It's my fault you've got a cold?" Rodney asked, and this time he looked up. Looked up and raised an eyebrow -- grinning that lopsided grin of his -- as if John was talking nonsense. "How is this my fault?"

"Because you gave it to me!"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I--" Rodney stopped mid-sentence and stepped away from the laptop. "For me to give it to you, I'd have to have been sick. I haven't been."

"You were." John grabbed at the tissue and sneezed again. And then again. He waited for the third sneeze, but it wasn't coming. "Three days ago, you couldn't stop sneezing. Your voice was raspy and you had a headache. The only time you weren't snapping at everyone was when you were in bed. You had a cold."

"My allergy meds--"

"You had a cold!" John accused, stabbing Rodney's chest with his finger. "A good, old-fashioned, the-med-bay-doesn't-stock-cold'n'flu-tablets cold! Admit it."

"I wasn't sick." Rodney took a step back and took a deep breath. "I'd slept two hours in the previous two days and mislaid my allergy tablets. I spend at least four hours a day yelling at idiots who can barely read a periodic table, let alone a set of instructions. I can see how you could mistake those symptoms for actual illness, but I assure you major that I was in the prime of health. For me, at least."

"You were sick and cranky," John said, and this time he wasn't surprised by how whiney his voice sounded.

"I'm always cranky," Rodney replied slowly, "and I wasn't sick. But you are."

"Yeah." John was going to argue some more -- arguing with Rodney was almost a hobby by now -- but he sneezed. "Atchoo!"

"Go to bed."

"Don't -- Atchoo! -- want to."

"Go to bed," Rodney repeated, not unkindly, "or I'm telling Carson you're standing in here, trying to infect my staff."

"You wouldn't," John bluffed weakly, wiping the Nose That Would Not Stop.

"And Elizabeth."

He could have fought it. If he wasn't sick, if his head wasn't pounding and his throat didn't feel like sandpaper every time he swallowed, he would have. Instead, he sneezed. "I'm going to bed."

"Sleep well, major."

"Atchoo!"


End file.
